


the poor weld

by crumbsfiction



Category: Death Note, Death Note & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, L is an arrogant bastard, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, light is fake as all hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-08 00:38:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5476496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crumbsfiction/pseuds/crumbsfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Lawliet,” Light calls, like this is the waiting room at the god damn doctor’s, and the man stands up. </p><p>Tall, he observes. Aristocratic. In desperate need of a flat iron.</p><p>(Light works as a successful but shady art dealer. L is his new expert analyst. Forgery is afoot.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the poor weld

When Kiyomi Takada enters the office at nine o’clock sharp, Light has already been at his desk for fifteen minutes. There is a steaming cup of coffee in his left hand and a ballpoint pen in his right, polished Italian shoes tapping out a steady rhythm against the carpeted floor.

He gives his boss a respectful nod as she passes his workplace, the even click of her heels ever familiar, and she nods back. It’s their morning tradition, in a way.

Before the door can swing shut behind her, however, Takada calls his name, almost as an afterthought.

“Come here for a second,” she says, and some childish voice buried deep inside Light’s mind whispers ‘ _you’re in trouble_ ’.

He’s not, of course. He’s the best employee this company has hired in years, straight out of college. Intelligent and very well-read, charming yet respectfully professional when interacting with customers, still young and almost too handsome for his own good. Whatever they need of him, Light can deliver.

He shuts the door behind him with a quiet click.

“Nothing to worry about,” Takada says before he can ask, “just wanted to give you an update on the shipment coming in tomorrow. According to my sources we might be handling a few originals, so make sure you don’t let the boys in the vans jostle the boxes around too much, or at all. The same goes for the porcelain, of course.” 

Light nods as she continues, “I have a breakfast meeting with a benefactor, so I trust you to keep this place under control. Oh, and by the way,” Takada adds in a way that suggests that this was actually the main point of the conversation all along, “our new analyst is coming in today. He’s outsourced from the University, so he won’t be around as much as his predecessor, but the rector promised me he’s not that big of a moron. _‘Brilliant’_ , is what he said, actually, but I think I’ll be the judge of that.”

“I see.” Light gives her a polite smile. He would never admit it, but the standards she holds herself and her co-workers against are inspiring. While he suspects that what’s fuelling her is in reality a well-hidden inferiority complex brought upon her by her parents, Takada’s endless drive to better herself and push the company forward is something he wishes to assimilate. 

“You’ll meet with him, I assume?”

That wasn’t what he was expecting. 

“I….” He manages after an embarrassing beat of silence. Takada has never been known to let something this important out of her manicured hands.

Light gathers himself quickly. “Of course,” he says after clearing his throat. “I’ll take care of it.” 

“Wonderful.” Takada picks up her Mulberry purse and quickly disappears out the door, the lingering scent of perfume the only proof that she was ever there in the first place.

Light straightens his tie and runs a hand through his hair. More responsibility from Takada means another step toward promotion, another step on the never-ending ladder of success he’s been climbing for as long as he can remember.

He is not to mess this up.

-

The man in the waiting area is about thirty-five years younger than Light was expecting. He has one thin leg crossed over the other and a open copy of today’s paper in his hands, but his eyes aren’t moving to follow the text, instead flicking up and down to observe the people milling about the office.

Attention to detail, then. A good sign.

“Lawliet,” Light calls, like this is the wait room at the god damn doctor’s, and the man stands up.

 _Tall_ , he observes. _Aristocratic._ _In desperate need of a flat iron._

Light introduces himself quickly and politely, then, “Follow me, please.”

The man complies without a word and Light settles in his desk chair, wishing desperately for his own office. Complete with four walls and a nice view of the city.

Lawliet ignores the offered chair and sits himself down right on the edge of Light’s desk, running his fingers idly across the glossy surface, leaving fingerprints everywhere. Light quickly decides not to mention it and shuffles around a few stray papers that don’t need shuffling. 

There is a horrific beat of awkward silence before Light clears his throat.

He is not to mess this up.

“I’m afraid we don’t have an assignment for you just yet, Mr Lawliet, but I have here a compilation of your predecessor’s work in full, should you wish to familiarise yourself further with the work you’ll be doing with us.” Light picks up the folder in question, tastefully put together by none other than Misa Amane, head of marketing and PR.

Lawliet raises a hand in a vague gesture of declination. “No need,” he says in a voice that is quiet and a little hoarse. His accent is crisp and distinct. “I’m already quite familiar. You specialise in the eighteenth and nineteenth century but will take anything that goes for a lot of money, whatever the source might be. Just last month you sold a Ming vase for upwards of two million. I believe the head auctioneer was yourself, Mr Yagami, was it not?”

“I think that’s a vast oversimplification – “ Light starts, but is quickly cut off.

“I’m not calling you greedy, nor am I accusing you of any foul play. I’m just stating facts. It’s the wish of every company to grow successful, isn’t it? I’m guessing revenue is the big first step in the right direction.”

Light thinks it’s time to change his approach.

He plucks his reading glasses out of their case, unfolding them and placing them carefully on his nose. The prescription is not very strong, but Light knows for a fact that the glasses make him look both charming and intellectual. Sometimes he wears them while filling out crosswords or sudokus in pen in the lunchroom. He doesn’t actually eat lunch in there, god forbid, but it makes him seem more approachable to his co-workers.

The crosswords are just for killing time.

“We’re already a successful company, Mr Lawliet, and the reason for that is that we care profoundly about the art. If you pour your heart and soul into your work, it will undoubtedly give you the results you desire.” He says the words wearing his most disarming and open smile. His guest only raises an eyebrow in response.

“Of course.” Lawliet stands, brushing imaginary dust off his trousers.

It appears to Light that the glasses didn’t quite work their charm as planned.

“I’m sorry to cut this meeting short,” Lawliet continues, “but I have a lecture to assist in half an hour. Whenever you do need my help, don’t hesitate to call.” The man plucks a business card from the pocket of his blue slacks and places it carefully on the desk.

The paper quality is terrible and Light can only hope the font is meant to be ironic.

When he looks up, Lawliet is already halfway across the room. He raises a lazy hand in a bastardisation of a wave.

“See you around, Light Yagami.” Then he’s gone.

Somehow, the only thing Light can think is ‘ _the nerve_ ’. He repeats it like a mantra in his head, over and over as he goes to refill his coffee _. The nerve on this one. The utter nerve._

He decides it’s best to get back to work.

-

“So tell me,” Takada says, throwing her fur-lined coat over the back of Matsuda’s chair. “How was the new kid?”

Light mulls his words over for a second.

“We didn’t speak for long. Seemed intelligent enough, at least judging from his syntax.”

“Apparently, he wrote a dissertation on the art inside the Versailles which won some sort of award,” Takada says. “Might be worth looking over.”

At the request of his boss, he Googles the dissertation in question when he gets home.

It’s outstanding.

Light is fuming.

-

The Painting arrives on Thursday.

Painting with a capital P because its value is previously near unheard of.

“It should be capital M for Money,” Matsuda remarks.

They’re all standing around it in a semi-circle like it’s the Holy Grail. It might as well be, Light thinks and does the math over in his head. While the painting is barely larger than his two palms, it’s worth ten times its weight in gold.

“Well,” Takada says, clasping her hands together, “I think it’s better to err on the side of caution with this one. We’ll store it, for the time being, and bring it out for the November auction. It has the most clients and most importantly, the most reputable clients. It’ll do wonders both for our reputation and,” She clicks her tongue for emphasis, “our collective bank accounts.”

There is a hushed murmur spreading through the crowd as the painting is carefully wheeled off for perfectly temperate and light-adjusted storage.

“Make sure to keep this under wraps for now,” Takada says, smiling, “and we’ll all be better off for it. All good things for those who wait.”

She never did mention where she found it, but no one is brave enough to ask. Light certainly isn’t about to.

-

“So tell me,” Lawliet says, practically throwing himself into the chair next to Light’s desk. “Where did your boss get her hands on this little gem?”

Light looks up from the homepage of their antiquarian associate and blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Mid-seventeen eighties, but of course the frame doesn’t fit the date. That specific brand of paint didn’t come into use until much later. But then a frame is an easy thing to change, isn’t it?”

“I don’t remember us scheduling a meeting for today,” Light bites out, annoyed. Someone must have blabbed to the university, and he’s going to find out who. But first-

“We haven’t. I had a gap hour, so I thought I’d drop by. Very interesting find, this. There’ll be an uproar in the community when you release the news. A positive one, of course.” He’s chewing gum, Light notes. How unprofessional.

“They aren’t about to be released,” Light states. “We’re keeping it quiet until the November auction.” A bit of sensitive information in exchange for their analyst’s promised silence, or so he hopes.

“Clever,” Lawliet remarks. “Mind if I take a look?”

“Apologies, but yes, I would mind. Since you’re outsourced, you’re technically not one of our employees. You’re meant to work on a case-to-case basis, with us bringing the objects to your attention.”

“But the object in question needs to be analysed,” Lawliet says.

“All in due time, Mr Lawliet,” Light says and plasters on his most patient smile.

“Please, call me L,” his companion says, “I haven’t come quite far enough to ask for ‘doctor’ just yet.” 

“I read your dissertation,” Light blurts, spontaneously. “Very interesting.”

“Thank you,” L replies with no hint of actual gratitude in his voice. He must be used to getting praised, Light thinks with annoyance. That would certainly explain his air of arrogance. “I take it you’ve studied art history as well?” 

“I have,” Light says. “My speciality is sculpture, actually. Since you’ve obviously educated yourself on our company, I’m sure you know a bit about me, too.”

“Can’t say I do, actually.”

“Hm.”

L continues on without pause. “Sculpture is interesting. Even the most realistic painting will never convey the same three-dimensional experience as art carved from stone. Did you know that the Athenian Treasury of Delphi is supposedly the first building made entirely out of marble? They dedicated it to Apollo, of course, and funded it almost entirely with Persian war loot.”

L blows a bubble with his gum. It pops obnoxiously, but sadly doesn’t stick to his face.

“And you know so much about this how, exactly?”

“One of my degrees is Architecture.”

The guy never really seems to change his facial expression, which Light finds annoying. He raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

“No. But what I take from this is that you didn’t read my resume. How disappointing.”

“I pride myself on being an excellent judge of character. I don’t discriminate between people judging only by the extent of their education or what schools they’ve attended. Grades and degrees are irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. Intelligence is a given for a place here, but what matters ultimately is personality. Individuality. Charisma, if you will.”

“That’s interesting, coming from someone who went to one of the top universities of the country.”

“Not one of,” Light corrects, a little too quickly.

“Of course, my mistake.” There is a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of L’s mouth.  “ _The_ top university of the country.” 

Light taps his foot, gives his Rolex a quick glance. “Well. What _I_ take from this, mister Lawliet, is that while I may not have read your resume, you’ve certainly read mine. Now if you excuse me, I have a conference call to arrange.”

And with that, Light rises quickly from his chair and strides out the door, past a slightly slack-jawed L.

Safe inside the confines of the elevator, Light allows himself a victorious smirk. 

-

Takada gives the go-ahead for the analysis two weeks later.

There is another _you’ll take care of it, won’t you, Light?_ and the familiar flush of pride in his chest at being trusted, confided in, respected enough to handle this. He’s the best employee they’ve hired in years and he doesn’t have to do a thing to prove it anymore. They all know.

The request has Light digging through his desk drawer, looking for that flimsy and cheap piece of printed paper he was given almost a month ago. 

L answers on the seventh ring, which frankly is just uncivil. Third ring or not at all. For this, Light decides not to bother with a greeting and gets straight to the point. 

“Remember your object of interest? It’s ready to be poked at with X-rays.”

“That’s definitely not how an X-ray works,” L replies, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Well, I didn’t go to med school.”

“Neither did I. I’ll take it to the university lab. It’ll be a week or so, but the results will be beyond reliable.”

“Are you kidding me?” Light exclaims, louder than he intended.

“Excuse me?” 

“You’ll take it to the lab in what, the pocket of your trousers? If this is genuine, which we have reason to believe, it’s worth millions. I will not let you just carry it off wherever you please. If my impression of you is correct, you’ll just store it in your kitchen or something equally horrible.” 

L is silent for a blissful second, then, “Why do you think you have better reason to believe the painting to be genuine than fake?” 

Light shrugs, even though no one can see him. He has an uncomfortable feeling that L is able to tell anyway. “Innocent until proven guilty.” 

“How naïve of you.”

“How pessimistic of you.”

L huffs. “Perhaps. But my years of higher education have taught me to question everything there is to question.” 

“That would be the point of education, yes. I’ll have one of our men bring it around for you. You break it, you buy it.” 

“Noted.”

-

He receives a text on Tuesday.

_Didn’t break it._

Light raises an eyebrow and types back: _It seems your funds are still intact._

 _They were never in danger,_ comes the quick reply. Light isn’t sure how to interpret that.

 _Have you made any progress?_ He asks instead.

He spends a full three minutes staring at his phone for a reply and feels disgusted with himself for wasting time.

The second the device is back inside Light’s pocket, it vibrates.

_Patience, Dorian Gray._

Light weighs his options, then decides that he might as well amuse himself.

_Are you telling me I’m youthfully handsome?_

_I was aiming for ‘obsessed with a painting’, but that works as well. You certainly have his immaturity down._

_A backhanded compliment followed by an insult. Charming._

_I aim to please._

Still wearing a slight smile, he slips the phone into his pocket for the second time. Only then it occurs to Light that the only telephone he has used to call L is his stationary work phone.

-

Light has high hopes for the analytic report of the painting for several different reasons.

The steady upkeep of correspondence has given him next to no information about L. A few vague likes (classic literature, swing music) and some very strong dislikes (socks, energy drinks), but nothing substantial.

The very foundation of ambition is striving towards something you don’t have but know you are capable of reaching. And so, after reading through all of L’s published articles (of which there are many), the only remaining piece of his identity Light is sure to come by is the report.

The second reason, of course, is the painting itself. It seems as if the entire office is on edge, like a young child trying to to keep a secret it’s desperate to share. Nauseating, how something so small can have such a large effect, and endlessly inspiring.

The report arrives unceremoniously into his email inbox on Friday morning. Lights hands are shaking as he opens the attached document and begins to read. 

At first, he can’t believe the words are written by L at all. He must have handed it over to an assistant, an undergrad perhaps, or a random middle schooler picked from the street. The grammar and syntax are impeccable, of course, but the words are uninspired and bland in a way his articles never were. The information itself is equivocal at best and doesn’t tell Light anything about the painting that he couldn’t have gathered from briefly glancing it over himself. Disappointed, he shuts his laptop and pushes it away as if he was rejecting the physical representation of the document.

“Have you heard from Lawliet?” Takada asks when she arrives, like she has every day for the past week, and Light shakes his head.

“Not yet, I’m afraid. But soon, for sure.”

-

L’s desk at first glance is a cluttered mess. 

At second glance, it appears to be organised in a way that Light can’t quite wrap his head around. In one corner books are stacked in alphabetical order by first name, in another they seem to be sorted by colour. Papers and scattered notebooks cover most of the free area, pens strewn about haphazardly. There are hardly any personal items around, except for a picture of a child with white hair and another one with a blonde bob, both photos taped carefully to the wall. _Cousins, or siblings maybe_ , Light muses. 

Someone clears their throat behind him and Light spins on his heel. 

“Snooping, are we?”

L is wearing a lumpy knit sweater that can only be described as atrocious. The navy sleeves almost entirely cover his ridiculous fingerless gloves, more fit for an eight grader than a graduate student. The fingers in question are loosely clutching a stuffed messenger bag and the black curls of hair hanging over his forehead look windblown.

“No,” Light lies.

“Sorry, but you won’t find anything interesting here,” L says, carelessly throwing his bag onto the office chair.

“Some of these books look interesting,” Light comments, running a finger across a few cracked spines.

“You’re free to borrow them if you like. However, you must return them on time or I’ll fine you. Ten percent interest rate, that’s per additional overdue day.”

Light smiles, despite himself. “Duly noted.”

“What brings you here, then?” L asks, running a hand through his messy hair.

“Your report. There’s something very off about it and I would like to discuss it with you. In private.”

“Can we talk about it over coffee? I haven’t had any yet,” L says, already slinging his bag across his shoulder, as if it’s a given that Light will accept.

He will, of course, and does.

That doesn’t make assuming any less rude.

The coffee shop L picks out is almost entirely deserted, which makes Light worry about the quality of their beverages. The coffee turns out to be adequate but the way L keeps plopping sugar cubes into his cup makes his stomach turn.

“So tell me,” L says, “was there a problem with my report? I worked very hard on it, you know." 

“Was there a problem-“ Light cuts himself off quickly and takes a deep breath before continuing. Self-control is key.

“I’ve read your dissertation and a few of your articles,” he says, “and I know for a fact that you’re not a stupid man. So tell me, why is this the most vague report on a piece of art I have ever read? Our last expert was a thousand times more specific than this, and he was about ten times your age.” 

“That’s impossible.”

“It was an exaggeration.”

“Obviously. Well – hmm. I admit to writing in ambiguous terms, as is usually not my style. The reason for that, I’m sure you can guess.”

There is no one in this world that can make Light Yagami lose his patience the way L can.

“Is this painting real or fake, Lawliet? Am I going to make a fortune or a fool out of myself?”

“It’s fake. Of course it’s fake,” L says, and Light’s stomach drops to his knees, then into the basement.

“You’re the only one who has read the report and I haven’t told any of my colleagues. No one but me would notice the difference and that is a fact. It’s all in my report. The real one, which I haven’t given to you yet.”

 _He wanted to see my reaction,_ Light realises. _To see if I would become suspicious nor not._

Bastard.

He’s almost impressed.

“Now of course, the choice if yours,” L continues. “Go ahead with the auction without telling a soul, make a killing. Or admit to it being a copy and keep your morals somewhat intact.”

He lets the words sink in for a moment and takes a sip of his drink. 

Light hasn’t asked anyone other than his parents for advice since he was a young boy still in school, scheduled for an obligatory meeting with the guidance counsellor. _I can’t decide between politics and the police force_ , Light had said. _Which do you think I should pick?_ And the counsellor had replied, _you don’t need to worry about that just yet, there’s plenty of time,_ and Light had realised that the counsellor was an idiot who didn’t understand the significance of planning ahead.

Still -

“What would you have done?”

L blinks like he’s taken aback by the question, and Light supposes he feels the same way.

“Honestly, I have no clue. I suppose I would consider the possibility that someone would find out that I knew about the fraud. That my career would be destroyed after the fact. Other than that…” He drops another sugar cube into his coffee, which must be freezing cold and undrinkable by now. “Sorry,” he adds, almost inaudible.

Light thinks that L is the kind of person who would be more worried about getting caught by the police than guilt-ridden about committing a crime. When presented with the same question during his ethics class in college, Light picked the obvious choice any son of a profilic police officer would. His true feelings lie elsewhere. This is not something he will admit.

Light stands up, wraps his grey cashmere scarf loosely around his neck.

“I need time to think,” he says. “In the meantime, I count on your discretion.”

L says nothing, just gives him a brief nod, and pushes his teaspoon around the table, leaving trails of coffee on the surface.

“Let me know when you decide." 

“Maybe,” Light says, and flees.

-

He has the weekend to consider the facts.

By Saturday, he has mapped out all the facts in his head and on a piece of notebook paper he intends to burn. It comes down to a game of loves-me-not.

_Do not tell and launch your career into the atmosphere. Risk being found out but give back immensely. All will be forgiven._

_Tell and stay frozen in time and space, going nowhere, achieving nothing. There is nothing to forgive._  

He considers his gift, his intellect, the things he could do for the community were he only a little higher on the social ladder, had he only a bit more influence.

He considers his father. His persistent speeches about how anything was possible with hard work and _it might take a while, but when you’ve reached the top by your own means, climbed the mountain with your own two hands, there is no better feeling in the world._

He stops considering his father.

By Sunday, he’s made his decision.

He starts drafting an email to Takada and gets as far as ‘ _The report from Lawliet has confirmed that the painting is indeed the orig’_ when the doorbell rings.

L looks like he’s been wide awake and stuck in a wind tunnel for most of the night.

“May I come in?” he says and pushes past Light before he can muster a reply.

“By all means,” he manages by the time L is already in the middle of his living room, inspecting the photos of his family on the coffee table.

“Fascinating, that you could figure out the conundrum by just observing my writing,” L drones in his usual monotone. “You must have studied my academic endeavours quite closely.”

“Like I said, I read a few of your articles. There were fewer of them than I would have thought, for someone who has spent as many years in the academic circles as yourself. Do you write under any pseudonyms? I’m guessing L stands for something else.”

“It does. But that’s not important.”

“Names are not important?”

“Of course they are. A forgery is not a forgery until the perpetrator has put someone else’s name on their art. But that’s not the point I’m here to make.”

“I see. Do tell, why are you in my living room, exactly?”

L smiles then, quick as a flash of lightening. “To put it simply… I'm here to complicate things further.” Naturally.

“You’ve seen the painting, and the original. The differences are extremely subtle, which brings me to my next point. The twist, shall we say. I’ve looked over the lab results a dozen times, compared them to previous forgeries… The artist who made this is almost as famous as the original painter himself, simply because of his extraordinary talent of copying other artist’s styles. A Van Gogh copy of his sold a few years ago for almost twenty percent of the original’s price. Selling this as it is, publically proclaiming it to be a copy, it would still make you a fortune, though not as large as it would have been, naturally. This leaves you, Hercules, with not two, but three choices.” He holds up three pianist's fingers as he speaks, presumably for emphasis.

“How much are we talking?” Light asks. His voice shakes a little.

L gives him a casual shrug. “Ten percent, maybe fifteen. Who knows. The point is, it’s not garbage.”

“It’s art. Of course it’s not garbage,” Light mumbles, staring at his shoes. 

L says nothing, so Light looks up to find his companion simply looking at him, wide-eyed.

“What?” Light asks.

“I didn’t think you actually gave a crap,” L says. “I was surprised, that’s all.”

“Do you really think I would have gone into this business if I didn’t care at all about the work? The first time we met, I told you – “

“The usual spiel, I remember. So there really is a core of idealism in you. Interesting.”

“Last time, you called me naïve. Make up your mind.”

“It’s a fine line.”

“And what side are you on?”

“The one with the best coffee,” L says and Light hears _the one that is the most beneficial._

He doesn’t think he has ever found another person this captivating. 

 _I'm the most beneficial_ , he thinks. _I am._

"Sleep on it," L says, then he's disappeared through the front door.

-

The auction takes place on a chilly November day when the frost is still clinging to the fallen leaves on the ground and mist engulfs the streets in a wonderful air of mystery.

Attendance is high, as expected, and wealthy. Rows of pearl necklaces and fur coats adorn the leather chairs set in front of the stage.

Light is making his final preparations, checking the spotlights over again, smoothing tablecloths and straightening curtains. There is staff to do all of those things, of course, but Light has always found it calming to do something tangible with his hands, especially right before he goes on stage. 

He’s checking the microphone settings just behind the stage when a familiar voice to his right almost makes him jump.

“Well, look who we have here,” L says and there’s a smirk in his voice. Light can hear it before he sees his face.

He’s wearing a black suit with velvet lapels, and Light has to hand it to him, he wears it well. His hair is still a tangled mop of waves atop his head, but there might be nothing to do about that, Light thinks. He’ll gift him a hairbrush for Christmas, maybe, and L will be pretend to be offended and throw it in the trash. He can see it now, laid out like a path before him. This is what will happen. This is what he will make happen. Ambition is striving towards what you know you are capable of achieving.

His tie is crooked.

“Dear God,” Light says, taking a few steps towards L. “I must be dreaming. Are those cufflinks you’re wearing?”

“I’m not sure,” L says, walking towards Light in turn. “They look like buttons to me.”

They end up standing almost pressed together, cheek to cheek. Light is holding one of L’s hands in his own but he doesn’t remember grasping it. It’s a strange half-embrace, hiding amidst the heavy satin curtains framing the stage, only inches from the spotlight. 

And Light knows that L knows what he could do. And L doesn’t care, cannot care about what Light would have done and can do and Light adores him for it.

There are no expectations here.

“I did the right thing,” Light whispers against L’s cheek.

L smiles and takes a step back. “Are you telling me or yourself? If you’re looking for confirmation, look elsewhere.”

 _Do you believe in right or wrong at all?_ Light wants to ask, and _how did you become this way_? But he figures there will be time later. There are conversations to be had and gifts to be thrown in the trash. On stage, Takada starts her introductory speech, dressed to the nines in a silk dress and perfectly styled hair. In a few minutes, Light will be called up, just as rehearsed, and he will dazzle them all.

“And the curtain rises,” L whispers, somewhere close to his ear. “Are you ready?”

“Of course I’m ready.”

Light lets go of his hand and takes five steps to the left, into the spotlight.

**Author's Note:**

> if you're thinking to yourself "what the fuck is this", don't worry. so am i
> 
> as usual hanging out @ jsuya.tumblr.com 
> 
> also!! the title is a very small excerpt from the absolutely beautiful poem "snow and dirty rain" by richard siken. please read it if you're into poetry, it will change you


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